


Well-Suited

by loves_books



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Gen, Season/Series 08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-14
Updated: 2015-05-14
Packaged: 2018-03-30 14:12:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3939799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loves_books/pseuds/loves_books
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You'd never really noticed it before, but she was right. You knew she was right as soon as she said it. All the suits you currently own are black, and you never realised.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Well-Suited

**Author's Note:**

> With huge thanks to Wendymr for agreeing to look at my current batch of assorted ficlets, and offering such helpful advice.

You’d never really noticed it before, not until sweet old Miss Henderson commented about how you ‘always look so smart in those lovely jet-black suits of yours’. She was one of those witnesses you meet from time to time, the type you have to go back and talk to more than once. A little confused and confusing, perhaps, but always waiting with a fresh pot of tea and homemade biscuits. And she liked your suits, apparently.

You really had never noticed it, nor thought about it consciously. When you go home that night, though, you go to your wardrobe and throw the door open wide. Inside, it’s not as neat as it usually is; you’ve had more than a few long days recently, and you need to do some housework. One or two suits still hang in their dry-cleaners bags, though thankfully not after having been dipped in any more lakes of shit.

She’s right. You knew she was right as soon as she said it. All the suits you currently own are black, and you never realised. 

They are all slightly different, of course. You’ve always appreciated a good quality suit; you’ve certainly had to spend long enough over the years hunting for ones that fit your long, stringy build, and you’ve rarely been able to buy off-the-rack. Some have slightly longer jackets; others have three buttons rather than two. Some have straight legs as opposed to skinny; none have wide legs, of course, since that would look truly ridiculous on you.

Their materials are all ever so slightly different as well, and you reach out to run your hand gently over the sleeves, feeling the varied textures. Some are heavy wool, perfect for a cold and wet Oxford winter, huddled by the canal at 3 am. Some are of a lighter cloth, more suitable for running around in the summer and still looking presentable.

Even their colours aren’t all exactly the same, though they are undeniably black. How many shades of black can there be? you wonder briefly, noticing for the very first time that some of the suits seem a little darker than others. Can one black somehow be more black than another? 

Ebony, charcoal, onyx, jet, liquorice and raven. Henry Ford springs to your mind, unbidden; any colour as long as it’s black. 

None are faded to grey, certainly; you would never allow that. You like to look after your clothes, especially these expensive suits. You take just as much care over your jeans and casual shirts. Your shoes are always cleaned and polished; habit, as much as thriftiness.

You have one or two favourites, of course. You pause now over one jacket in particular, moving your hand down to clasp the buttons on the sleeve. This one fits you best, you’ve always felt, and you can tug the collar up high when the wind gets a little too chill. You wear this one most often. You feel like your true self in this suit, somehow.

You used to own other suits. Grey, mostly, and one or two in shades of blue. You had coloured shirts to go along with them, and patterned ties. You even had bright socks, which you took care to coordinate with the rest of your outfit. Himself always joked about your lavender socks, but that never bothered you. You liked that he noticed the little things.

Less to notice now, in your darker wardrobe. Your shirts are still somewhat varied; you pull open the next wardrobe door, needing to check, and sure enough there is a mixture of white and cream and even pale grey. No more pinks or pastels, though, not now. The coloured ties are still there, hanging on their clever little unit, even if the more cheerful ones are buried beneath the blacks and greys you tend to match to your black suits.

You step back from the wardrobe, leaving both doors wide open, and sink down onto the edge of your bed. Why had you never noticed? And why, in fact, had it happened at all? Certainly it hadn’t been a conscious decision, and the first reasons that come to mind are stark and make you want to turn away from them.

People wear black when they’re depressed; you hate the cliché, hate to put people into any sort of box, but the fact remains. You aren’t depressed, though you’ve struggled with what you once called ‘existential flu’ on and off for years. It could perhaps have been a symptom of that, but you don’t think that could be entirely responsible. You hope you aren’t that predictable.

Less hassle in the mornings, maybe. You certainly don’t have to put as much thought into what you grab out of the wardrobe when you get yet another pre-dawn wake-up call. Black socks go with a black suit and white shirt, and a random dark tie. Simple. A black overcoat and a pair of black shoes, and you’re ready to go.

But again, you aren’t sure that’s the reason. Thinking about it, you’ve just always liked black. To some, you know it’s a symbol of rebellion and protest; to Johnny Cash, you remember suddenly, it meant rebellion against what he once called the stagnant status quo, and ‘our hypocritical houses of God, against people whose minds are closed to others' ideas’. You aren’t thinking about starting a revolution or rebellion, though the stray thought does make you smile before you shake your head in dismissal. 

Perhaps there isn’t a reason; perhaps you’ve just grown up. You’ve certainly grown into your job, after going for your long walk that wasn’t really a walk. Inspector, now, though you still find yourself staring at your new warrant card in surprise at times. 

Then, it hits you. Unconsciously or not, you’ve chosen to wear a uniform. 

Your black suits, in all their various shades and cuts, are a symbol of who you’ve become. This is the decision you’ve made, after agonising over whether to stay or go. This is what you are now, and what you’re going to stay as. You are a Detective Inspector; more than that, you are a police officer. A bloody good one.

This black suits you better than the longer black robes you would have worn as a priest, you feel. This black shows your commitment to your job, and reassures people that you are in charge. That you are serious. That you may have had doubts but now you are certain of your chosen path.

And if sweet little old ladies like Miss Henderson think you look smart in them, then that’s all the better. It may not be the kind of attention you wish you could have, from the person you want to notice you the most, but it’s still nice to know.

One day, maybe, Himself might notice the small details once more. Perhaps you should see if you can dig out those lavender socks to wear tomorrow. Just for old times’ sake.


End file.
